“So that’s the fabled Three Step Pass,” Halt said.
The picket captain nodded. “There’s a steep path beyond the entrance that winds up through the cliffs to the top.” He paused. “Or presumably it does. I’ve never gone farther than fifty meters past that entrance.”
Halt glanced at him. “And why would that be?”
The captain met his gaze. “Because I value my life,” he said. “Morgarath has built fortifications across the pass and put his men there to stop anyone getting past. And, over the past few months, he’s replaced the men with some kind of strange savage beasts. They’re semi-human, I suppose, but I have to say they terrified me.”
“What are they?” Halt asked. He recalled Pauline’s comments about beasts called Wargals.
The captain gave an involuntary shudder. “I didn’t get a clear look at them. It was dark in the pass, and after our first encounter, I was too busy running. They walk upright, but they’re kind of apelike. Long claws and huge fangs. They’re a real nightmare. About the height of a man but much heavier. They’re covered in dark fur and they have an opposable thumb, like a man, so they can take hold of things. I took a patrol up there two months ago to test the defenses and we ran into half a dozen of these beasts. I lost two men and the rest of us barely made it back down the pass.”
Halt scratched his chin thoughtfully. He studied the dark entrance to the pass and the forbidding rock walls towering on either side of it.
“There’s no other way to the top?” he asked.
The captain shook his head. “That’s it. The only other way is to scale the walls themselves. And good luck to you if you want to try that.”
Halt said nothing for a few moments. The cliffs were granite—hard, unyielding rock that would resist any attempt to drill or cut handholds or footholds. He shaded his eyes, squinting for better focus.
At least it wasn’t smooth. There appeared to be plenty of outcrops and smaller fissures that should provide purchase for a good climber. And Halt was an excellent climber.
The captain indicated the entrance to the pass. “The fissure winds up through the mountains, and the floor of the pass rises with it. The pass is rarely less than ten or twelve meters below the level of the surrounding rock walls. But the sides are smooth and slick—at least, they are in the part I’ve seen. I’d say they’ve been shaped that way so there’s no other way up or down into the pass.”
“Hmmm,” said Halt thoughtfully. “And you’ve no idea what I might find at the top?”
The captain shook his head. “No idea at all. I imagine there might be some kind of guardhouse there, to accommodate the men and the . . . things . . . on watch at the pass.”
“And after the first barrier, are there others?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But I’d say yes. It would make sense to construct a series of barricades to keep attackers out. That way, if one fell, the defenders could pull back to the next.”
“Yes. That makes sense,” Halt said. He frowned. It was too much to hope that he would be able to bypass the first fortification, then climb down into the pass and continue to move upward unimpeded. It seemed he was going to have to climb the whole way up the cliffs.
“Well, thanks for the information,” he said.
The captain made a wry face. “There wasn’t a lot I could tell you,” he said. “What do you plan to do?”
Halt studied the towering cliffs again before answering. At the very top, there was a flash of lightning and they heard a dull rumble of thunder.
“Place has its own climate,” the captain said dourly. “And the weather always seems to be bad.”
Halt allowed a grim smile to lighten his features. “They don’t call them the Mountains of Rain and Night because they’re a sun-drenched paradise,” he remarked.
“So what are you planning to do?” the captain repeated.
Halt pointed to the west. “I’ll go along the base of the cliffs until I’m out of sight of any watchers in there.” He indicated the dark maw of the pass. “Then I’ll climb up and see what I can see.”
The captain looked at the forbidding cliffs for several seconds, trying to picture the gray-cloaked Ranger scrambling up them. Somehow, the vision always ended with the sight of Halt tumbling back down.
“That won’t be easy,” he said, with some feeling.
Halt patted him lightly on the shoulder. “It never is.”
• • •
He moved back to where he had left Abelard waiting with the rest of the company of soldiers. There had been no need to tether the horse. He was Ranger trained and wouldn’t wander off. Halt bade farewell to the captain and his men and mounted the stocky little horse, setting him to a trot as they rode away from the soldiers’ campsite.
“Don’t envy them their job,” he told Abelard. “Sitting here in all kinds of weather, watching out for these bear creatures that Morgarath has recruited. Bored out of their brains most of the time, then facing sudden danger without any warning.”
Abelard tossed his head, shaking his mane in the ways horses do.
I’m sure they’d rather be with you, scrambling up those cliffs by your fingernails, not knowing what’s waiting at the top.
“You’re a big comfort,” Halt told the horse.
That’s my job.
Realizing that he was unlikely to ever get the final word with his horse, Halt let the matter drop. As they moved farther away from the pass, and the chance that they might be observed, he urged Abelard out of the trees and closer to the cliffs, looking for a place where he might begin to climb. For the most part, the cliffs were depressingly sheer and steep.
Are you thinking of taking me with you?
“Horses don’t climb.” Halt nodded at the granite walls beside them.
Abelard seemed to snigger. You could carry me. I’m not so heavy.
“You can wait at the base of the cliff,” Halt told him. Then, a moment later, he said softly, “Hold on. What’s this?”
This was a narrow crack, zigzagging diagonally upward. He dismounted and moved toward it. It went quite deep into the rock face, and was a little wider than his hand. He gripped the side of it, then wedged his right foot into it and hauled himself up experimentally. The hard rock provided a firm purchase and he climbed several meters up the rock face. Leaning back, he peered upward.
“Looks like it leads up to something about thirty meters up,” he said. “Could be a ledge.”
Or it could be a shallow little shelf that will leave you stranded up there with nowhere to go.
“You’re a real optimist, aren’t you.”
Just pointing out the obvious.
Halt looked around and saw a glade of trees a few meters away. Leading Abelard into them, he was satisfied with what he saw. The horse would be well sheltered here and out of sight of any passerby. As he studied the spot, he heard a trickle of running water. Following the sound, he found a small spring emerging from the rocks about two meters above ground level, and running down into a naturally formed stone basin.
“Perfect,” he said. “I thought I was going to have to leave you water in a bucket.” He carried a collapsible leather bucket tied to his saddle, for use on occasions like this. Abelard’s training would make sure that he drank only what he needed. “I figure I’ll be gone maybe three days. One day up, one day to scout around and one day to come back down. You’ll have plenty of water and grass for that length of time.”
For once, Abelard said nothing. Halt unsaddled him, laid the saddle across a fallen tree and then rubbed him down. He’d replace the saddle in the morning, although he’d leave the girth strap loose. He might need to leave in a hurry and wouldn’t want to waste time saddling the horse. Abelard would be comfortable enough for a couple of days with the loosened saddle in place. He unrolled his bedroll and laid it on the soft grass. It was nearly dusk
and he had no intention of trying to climb the cliffs in the dark. It would be hard enough in daylight.
He decided against starting a fire, although his body ached for the taste of coffee. Instead, he had a frugal meal of flat bread wrapped around a few slices of smoked beef, and smeared liberally with pickles. He washed it down with clear water from his canteen, then refilled the bottle at the spring in the face of the cliff. Abelard watched him, grazing calmly and grinding his big molars together in a constant rhythm.
“You’re a noisy eater,” Halt remarked.
The horse stopped grinding for a few seconds. You should hear me with my mouth open. Then he resumed his steady grinding.
Strangely, Halt found it a vaguely comforting noise. So long as Abelard continued to munch away at the fresh green grass, it was apparent that there was no danger nearby.
“Long day tomorrow,” Halt said, and rolled into the blankets of his bedroll, spreading his cloak over the top of them. It wasn’t just for the extra warmth, although that was one consideration. When he stretched out beneath the cloak, he merged into the background of bushes and grass and was all but invisible.
He listened as Abelard stopped grazing. Seeing that Halt had settled for the night, the little horse paced quietly to all four corners of the glade, stopping at each, ears pricked.
He listened to the night sounds, his ears twitching to catch them more efficiently, and sniffed the breeze experimentally, searching for any foreign scent that might indicate enemies in the vicinity. After he had covered the four points of the compass, he returned to the middle of the glade and lowered his head to graze again. The grass was good here, moist and sweet, and Abelard had learned to eat whenever he had the opportunity.
After all, a horse never knew when he might be forced to go hungry.
Halt fell asleep to the placid, comforting rumble of those big teeth grinding away.
He awoke just before first light. One moment he was asleep, the next he was wide-awake. But he did it without any sound, or visible sign. His eyes opened and that was the only movement he allowed himself.
He could see the dark shadow of his horse standing a few meters away, knees locked and dozing standing up. He lay silently for several minutes, letting his ears search the dim gray dawn around him. He could hear birds beginning their dawn chorus. That was encouraging. If there was danger nearby, they wouldn’t be so uninhibited. A light breeze sprang up and riffled the upper branches of the trees around him.
His hand was on the hilt of his saxe, where it had stayed all night. Now, satisfied that he and Abelard were alone, he relaxed his grip and sat up, casting the cloak and blankets aside. The morning was chilly and he shivered, then rubbed his face with both hands, clearing the sleep from his eyes.
Abelard moved a few paces to stand over him, then lowered his head, blowing his warm breath into Halt’s face.
“Time to start up that cliff,” said the Ranger.
6
AFTER A FRUGAL MEAL—THE SAME AS HE HAD EATEN THE night before—Halt began preparing his equipment for the climb. He had a long coil of strong, lightweight cord. He knew that it was capable of bearing his weight if necessary and he laid it on the ground. Then he took a leather bag of iron spikes from his saddlebags and placed them beside the rope. A mallet, its lead-weighted wooden head muffled by several layers of canvas, followed. If he was going to be hammering the spikes into cracks in the wall, he didn’t want the noise to ring out so that anyone within half a kilometer would hear.
He strung his bow and slung it securely over his right shoulder, outside his cloak. Then, slinging the coil of rope across his body and hanging the mallet round his neck on a loop of leather thong, he patted Abelard on the muzzle, re-saddled him as he’d planned and walked toward the cliff.
Take care.
“I plan to,” he replied. He stopped at the cliff face and looked upward. The top of the cliff was invisible from this close. It seemed to disappear into the misty light of early morning. Still, he didn’t need to be able to see the top to know that he was faced with a long and difficult climb. He settled his equipment more securely, then reached up into the narrow crack in the wall with his right hand held sideways, and gripped the sharp edge.
The crack wasn’t vertical, but ran at an angle from left to right, so he had some downward purchase, as well as the sideways pressure of his hand against the edge of the crack. He stepped up with his right foot, turning it slightly sideways so that it would fit into the crack, then smoothly heaved himself upward, using arm and leg muscles. His left hand scouted along the rock wall until he felt a rough outcrop of rock that provided him with a secure handhold. He heaved himself a little higher, setting his left foot into the crack and gaining purchase by pushing sideways and wedging it tightly in the split in the rock. Hands, arms and legs worked together and he went up another meter.
He released his right foot and brought it up, knee bent, searching for purchase in the crack. When he had it wedged, his right hand followed, sliding up the fissure until he had it settled securely. His left foot followed. Then, when it had a firm purchase, he searched with his left hand for another hold, found it and heaved himself another meter up the cliff.
So he continued, working smoothly, never rushing, choosing his handholds and footholds deliberately and always keeping three points of contact with the sheer rock wall. He glanced down at one stage. The ground below him seemed disappointingly close. He thought he’d climbed higher. Setting his hands and feet, he leaned back slightly, looking up.
He couldn’t see the top of the cliff. But he could make out the line of what he hoped was a substantial ledge, still twenty meters above him.
The fissure continued to provide him with secure handholds and footholds as he worked his way upward. But now he was high enough to take out a little insurance. He spied a crack in the wall to the left of the main fissure and studied it closely. The rock either side of it seemed solid and undamaged. He reached into the leather pouch at his belt and took out one of the spikes.
Hanging by his right hand and with both feet set firmly in the fissure, he used his left hand to carefully insert the spike into the small crack, making sure it was firmly set and unlikely to fall out when he released it. Carefully, he took away his left hand, ready to snatch at the spike in case it started to fall free. But it remained wedged and he nodded to himself in satisfaction. Then he fetched the canvas-muffled mallet from where it hung around his neck and drove the spike in with three sharp blows. The mallet striking the spike gave out a dull thud and not a metallic ringing that would have been the case without the canvas padding. He angled the spike so that it drove down into the crack. Then he let the mallet hang and seized the spike with his left hand, gradually transferring most of his weight to it to make sure it was solidly set. Satisfied that it was, he looped the rope around it in a loose half hitch, paid out eight meters of cord and then fastened it under his shoulders. If he slipped now, he would fall to the end of the length of rope, then be brought up short by the loop around the spike.
“So long as the spike holds,” he muttered, then dismissed the thought. Worrying about the outcome wouldn’t do any good. He had set the spike as firmly as he could. He didn’t tighten the half hitch. He climbed on. The rope was loosely looped over the spike. If he fell, it would tighten and bring him to a halt. But left loose as it was, he could flick the small loop free of the spike when it came time for him to set another spike in place.
He repeated the action after another ten meters. As he had planned, the loose loop fell free of the first spike after three attempts to flick it clear. He hammered in another spike, looped the rope around it and climbed on.
His fingers, knees and ankles were aching from the strain of supporting his weight, particularly as he didn’t have a straightforward vertical purchase on the fissure but had to force his hands and feet to either side to gain traction. He would need a rest soon and he glance
d up to see how close the ledge was.
To his surprise, he was only a meter short. He heaved himself up onto the level shelf of rock. It was less than a meter wide, but it allowed him to sit with his legs dangling over the drop and his back against the cliff wall while he took stock of his situation.
The fault in the rock face that he had been using to help climb petered out at this stage and continued no farther. But the ledge sloped upward to his left as he faced the wall and that meant it ran back in the direction of the giant fissure that formed Three Step Pass. The ledge went round a rock buttress ten meters away and he couldn’t see how far it continued.
“Might as well take a look,” he said to himself. A quick study of the rock face above him had showed that there were minimal handholds and footholds there. Perhaps things might be more promising over to the left.
Additionally, there was an overhang of rock directly above him and, if he tried to continue up at this point, he would have to negotiate that. He leaned out and flicked the rope, releasing the half hitch from the spike where he had looped it and bringing the rope in, coiling it as he went and draping the coils over his shoulder.
He sat for a few more minutes, taking a drink from his canteen, then flexing his cramped fingers and toes, and rotating his aching ankles. Finally, with a sigh, he crouched on the ledge, then rose to his full height. He glanced down. The forest floor looked a lot farther away now, but he could still make out the form of his horse, head craned back to watch through the trees.
Not for the first time, he shook his head in admiration of the intelligence and loyalty shown by these Ranger horses. He set out toward the pass, testing each step to make sure the ledge wasn’t undermined or unsafe. Reaching the buttress, he set his back against the wall and inched carefully around the outcrop, moving sideways in the suddenly restricted space. He knew many men would have been overcome with vertigo as the ledge narrowed severely and the drop yawned below him. But he’d never been bothered by heights and went round the outcrop easily.
The Battle of Hackham Heath Page 4